


Time and Tide

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Cannon, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Whimsycatcher, over on Tumblr (http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com), who draws beautiful pictures. Inspired by this one specifically (http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/127651922268)</p><p>Whimsycatcher's caption: For once, Merlin was early in preparing Arthur’s meal. He planned to set the table and leave before the prince returned from training. Arthur had been acting like a moody child as of late and Merlin was keen to avoid him… but fate seemed against it! While reaching for the wine jug, his elbow knocked over the bowl of thick stew. Merlin cringed as it sloshed all over Arthur’s favourite chair, along with the expensive furs that draped it… Well, a vigorous cleaning spell might deal with that, but he would have to go down to the kitchens for another bowl! The prat would be back soon, damn! Merlin cursed himself for not having stopped time like he had with the bucket in front of Gaius. Oh, if only he could… go back in time? </p><p>Just a minute or so… It couldn’t be that hard…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Tide

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Whimsycatcher's picture](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/141584) by Whimsycatcher. 



> See end for WARNINGS as they contain spoilers

“He's such a child, Gaius,” Merlin says, dumping the platter of rolls that Arthur left onto Gaius's scrubbed wood table and sitting down, finally, for his own breakfast, “he is demanding and sulky and he made me dress him from top to toe, as if he couldn't do a thing for himself. And he refused to put on trousers!”

 

“Is the king walking around without trousers again?” Gaius asks, sitting and taking one of the rolls.

 

“He is not. He just refused the trousers that I picked out the first, second, and third time. He's walking a around in his winter trousers, which are thick wool, and he's going to be far too hot. But oh, no, Merlin knows nothing! He's like a toddler!”

 

“Well, yes, that does rather remind me of toddlers. A specific toddler, in fact.”

 

“Arthur?”

 

“You, Merlin. Hunith wrote to me many times about trying to get you to put clothing on. You spent a lot of time running around naked, apparently. The two times I met you you were wearing nothing but your boots.”

 

Merlin can feel his face heating. He scowls at Gaius, who smiles widely back at him. Merlin doesn't talk to Gaius about Arthur's childish behaviour the rest of the day. Instead, he goes to Gwaine.

 

“...and then, at lunch time, he decided he didn't want to eat a thing. Refused all of it. He went down to the kitchens and told the cook I had brought him the wrong lunch, and she already hates me! Now she thinks I maligned her precious prince, and made her look bad for sending him food he didn't want. Only, it was his favourite! Anyway, he then spent ten minutes whining at me about being hungry.”

 

“He was alright at training, this morning,” Gwaine says.

 

“Lucky you. Not only is he whining and childish and like a spoilt brat, but he's been grumping all the time, too. You know how grumpy he can get. He won't talk to me for hours and hours, and then it will only be to lash out and tell me to shut up. And he throws stuff at me!”

 

“Poor Merlin.”

 

“You're not being sympathetic.”

 

“You know very well that I think Arthur's a badly behaved brat at times, but you get cross when I say it outloud. I'm happy to follow him, I'm happy to be his knight. I think he's fair. But I also think he can be a complete idiot, and he treats you badly.”

 

“No he doesn't,” Merlin says, automatically, “he just can't- right. Fine. I see what you did there.”

 

“Yeah, and I had to say all those nice things just to stop you punching me.”

 

“I've never punched you.”

 

Gwaine grins at him and gives him a half-hug, ruffling his hair. Merlin yelps and shoves at him but Gwaine holds on until Merlin laughs with him.

 

“What is it with you knights trying to cheer me up by manhandling me?” Merlin grumbles, but he's still smiling.

 

“You love it,” Gwaine says, “I'm supposed to be on watch, you know.”

 

“I know, don't worry. I've got it,” Merlin says, wriggling his fingers.

 

Gwaine pretends he has no idea what Merlin's talking about. As he always does. Merlin knows he knows, though, because he once accidentally made Arthur's armour dance as he cleaned it and Gwaine had laughed. Merlin manages the rest of his chores more light of heart. He even manages to finish early and is early with the king's evening meal, which means he can get it all set out and scarper before Arthur gets back.

 

He can avoid having to sit through Arthur's gloomy silence, the glares, the huffs of irritation, the short tempered outbursts, the insults, whatever ridiculous complaints Arthur has. Merlin is tired of it all. He turns too sharply, eager to be gone, and knocks the table, arms automatically flying out to catch anything, bumping the stew and knocking it all over the furs covered seat. Merlin stares at it in dismay.

 

“No,” Merlin says, “Nope.”

 

He should just clean it and go get more stew. All the way back to the kitchens. To face the wrath of cook. Merlin looks at the mess on the furs.

 

“How hard can it be to go back a few seconds?” Merlin says, “no, no. Who knows what would happen? I could do anything. I should at least look up a spell first.”

 

Merlin cleans the stew off the fur with a flick of his wrist. He looks at the empty bowl and steels himself to face cook. She already shouted at him this evening. And hit him with a wooden spoon. His hand's still smarting. He is the most powerful sorcerer, surely... Merlin closes his eyes and goes for it. Arthur's mood, the cook, the things thrown at him and used to hit him, all of it wells up in him, ending with Arthur's childish tantrum about trousers.

 

“Sorcerer!”

 

Merlin freezes, eyes flying open, not daring to move a muscle. Arthur must have come in and seen. Merlin must have done something, something obvious. Merlin breathes slowly and very carefully. But then something sinks through the mist of terror. Arthur does not, under any circumstances, replace is 'r's with 'w's. And this person had done that. And Arthur's voice isn't that high and squeaky.

 

Merlin turns slowly around, arms up and away from his body, trying to look harmless.

 

“You're a sorcerer! You just appeared! Like magic! Guards!”

 

Merlin quickly muffles the sound of the child's voice. That's who is talking to him, a small child. A small child wearing a crown and wielding a wooden sword and looking very much like Arthur.

 

“I didn't appear,” Merlin says, “you must have been dreaming.”

 

The child looks at Merlin, disbelieving.

 

“Sire,” Merlin adds, hopefully.

 

The boy scowls.

 

“I did not dream it, I wasn't asleep!”

 

“Well you should have been,” Merlin says, taking a guess.

 

The boy scowls harder, and pokes Merlin with his wooden sword.

 

“I am the prince, I killed a wild boar today, and I should be allowed to stay up to feast and eat it.”

 

“Your father told you it was too late for you,” Merlin says, and gets the sword in his side again, “ow! Stop prodding me.”

 

“It's only a training sword,” Arthur says, “I have a real one. Only it's too heavy yet. I can use a bow, though. I can shoot you, if you try to run.”

 

“I told you, I'm not a sorcerer.”

 

“So how come the guards haven't come? Guards! Guards! Guards!” Arthur yells, getting progressively louder.

 

Even at this age he's much more observant than Merlin expects, and Merlin can't help but feel a little proud of him.

 

“Maybe the guards are sleeping, like you should be.”

 

“I know you're a sorcerer. I'm going to take you to my father and have him chop your head off, and we'll eat you, like my boar.”

 

“I am not a boar, though,” Merlin says, “I'm a human being.”

 

“You're a _sorcerer_.”

 

“I am a person, and you don't hunt people, do you?”

 

“I won't hunt you. I'll just put you to death.”

 

“You will kill me. Murder me,” Merlin says, magic rising in his eyes, “like your boar, like your animal. You'll hunt me down and take my life and you'll see me as nothing more than a wild animal, who has no reason for living except for your entertainment. I won't let you, though. As you say. I am a sorcerer.”

 

On the last word Merlin call the fire from the grate and makes it roar through the room like dragon's breath, heat engulfing them. He lets it die down and waits for the prince's verdict. All that happens, though, is Arthur starts to sniffle. He's still got his sword pointed at Merlin, but it's started to shake, along with the prince's small body, the string around his neck jumping, his thin chest rising and falling almost violently under his tunic. Merlin remembers that this isn't Arthur, not really. This is just a boy, just a small child. And he's scared. 

 

“I won't let you,” Arthur whispers, voice wavering, sniffing back tears, “won't. My father says that all the people are mine to have. Like my puppies. I have to look after them. I don't let the foxes eat my puppies, and I won't let you burn my people.”

 

Merlin softens as Arthur takes a step towards him. 

 

“You're a very brave prince,” Merlin says, crouching, looking for Arthur's eyes and finding them, meeting them. Arthur doesn't look away. “I apologise for frightening you.”

 

“I'm not scared,” Arthur says, teeth chattering, sword wavering in his shaky grasp. 

 

Merlin lets his magic rise again, warming the stones of the room, bringing up the light a little. He keeps meeting Arthur's eyes the whole time. Arthur looks so afraid. Merlin knows Arthur, knows what he loves, what he finds comforting. Merlin lifts his hands and whispers the words he needs, gathering the dust from the flag stones, shaping it into Cabal, the old hound who has been Arthur's friend even longer than Merlin. He remembers how young the prince is here and ages Cabal back to the young hunter he was when Merlin first met him. 

 

Cabal recognises Arthur and goes to nose at him, tail wagging, standing firm at Arthur's side. Arthur gets very rigid, but his breathing evens out and his pose becomes steadier. Merlin smiles and Arthur's lower lip juts out, determination returning. Merlin nods. 

 

“That's better, little prince,” Merlin says.

 

“I'm not little,” Arthur says, “and I'm going to kill you.”

 

“Have you ever killed anyone before?”

 

Arthur hesitates, then shakes his head, free hand curling into Cabal's fur. 

 

“I know how to,” Arthur says, “and I killed a boar. And I have killed rabbits.”

 

“A person is not a boar or a rabbit. Even a person who has magic.”

 

“Magic is bad.”

 

“Is it?” Merlin says, moving to sit cross-legged, “won't you sit? It must be tiring, standing.”

 

Arthur gets onto his knees, never lowering his sword, and Cabal gracefully flops down against his side, head resting on his master's knee. 

 

“Magic is evil,” Arthur says, “I know that.”

 

“Why is it evil?”

 

“It,” Arthur starts, then pauses, lips moving, face scrunching up in thought, “cow ups.”

 

“Corrupts,” Merlin says, softly, “yes, I suppose it can. All this power in my blood, the thrill of controlling the elements, the joy of calling down rain. I can feel it thrumming in me, like the beating of my heart. I can feel it in the air around me, pulsing, stronger and weaker and blazing. I can feel it in the earth as I walk, in the trees and beasts, an answering beat to my beat. Yes. Magic can corrupt. What of your power, princeling?”

 

“My power?”

 

“Your father gives you people the same way he gives you puppies. You can have people executed, you can take their lives away just like that. You can call for guards and then will come and try to take the threat away, and they might die. You have power, too.”

 

“I don't have magic.”

 

“Magic is just one kind of power. That sword you hold, that's power. You have the power to keep me here, talking to you.”

 

Arthur's arm shakes again, from fatigue and uncertainty this time. 

 

“Magic... magic isn't the same,” Arthur says, “magic isn't fair!”

 

“I don't have a sword. How is it fair that you have a sword and I don't?”

 

Arthur doesn't answer, scratching behind Cabal's ears instead, looking down at the dog and away from Merlin, stroking the soft fur. 

 

“Why not put down the sword?” Merlin says, “you must be tired.”

 

Arthur lowers the sword, not looking up. 

 

“I don't think you're right, sorcerer,” Arthur says, “but perhaps you are not entirely wrong.”

 

“How old are you?” Merlin asks, “how many winters?”

 

“Seven. I will be seven winters, when this one comes.”

 

And already, Merlin thinks, you talk like someone far, far older. You speak to me as a prince, and I am your subject. 

 

“That is not so many,” Merlin says. 

 

“I will be able to fight with my real sword, soon,” Arthur says, “I can already lift it and do some of the drills. When I can, I will ride out with the knights. By the time ten winters have passed I will be fighting in my father's campaigns. When eleven have passed, I will lead my knights in skirmishes, and when twelve have passed, I will lead them in war.”

 

“You've been told so?”

 

“My father tells me. I will make him proud, by fighting well. I will be the best knight in the kingdom, and far beyond it.”

 

“Yes, you will. And that will be all you are. Someone who fights, who takes lives.”

 

“Knights protect people.”

 

“Only those they deem worthy, and why should knights get to decide who gets to live and die? Why should you? Why should your father?”

 

“Because we are king,” Arthur says. 

 

“Will you be more than that?”

 

Arthur looks down at Cabal. 

 

“Show me, then,” Arthur says, not raising his gaze, “show me, sorcerer.”

 

He still drops the 'r's for 'w's, and Merlin feels his heart break for the small boy still learning to talk properly. If Merlin has come back to the same season they had been at in the future, which he suspects he has, then it is only the very beginning of Spring. Arthur must be six years old.

 

“Show me your power,” Arthur says.

 

Merlin shows him. 

 

**

 

“I met a sorcerer, once,” Arthur whispers. 

 

Merlin rubs the tears away and hurries over to his king, trying to cover him better with his cloak, feeling his skin for warmth, pressing his hands to Arthur's side to try and quell the pain. 

 

“You should rest,” Merlin says. 

 

“I can't. I am too tired to sleep. I met someone with magic, Merlin.”

 

“You've met many sorcerers.”

 

“No, I mean a good one. Like you. When I was a boy. I went out on a hunt, and I downed a boar. It was just a small one, barely more than a piglet, but my father celebrated it as if it were a full grown male. He held a feast, and I wanted to go, but I was forbidden. I was playing in my chambers, felling the beast again in my imagination, and he just appeared. I don't remember much, but he was gentle and kind.”

 

“Good.”

 

“He was like you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“When I met you, I knew there was something about you. I knew it. And Dragoon's eyes, when they went gold. When he did magic on me, there was... and I knew, I _knew_. When Cabal grew into a good hunter, I knew. He looked so alike... I did not wish to see. It was you, wasn't it? You're immortal. You don't age.”

 

“I.. no, no,” Merlin says, pressing his hand to Arthur's breast, “no. I spilt your stew, a few seasons back. I didn't want to go to the kitchens because cook was mad at me, and I just wanted to spin back time a few moments.”

 

“You...” Arthur makes a strange, gurning, choking sound and spit gurgles over his chin, his chest shaking.

 

 

Merlin cries out in alarm, pressing magic desperately into Arthur's body, trying to save him. It's not time for him to die. They're going to make it to the lake. Arthur's not going to die, he's not. 

 

“You... sp...il... stew!” Arthur croaks, and Merlin realises he's laughing. 

 

_Laughing._

 

“You prat,” Merlin says, “I thought you were dying. Yes, okay?”

 

“Most powerful... and you... stew,” Arthur says, catching his breath.

 

His hand flops on the earth and Merlin realises he's trying to raise his arm. Merlin lifts it for him and Arthur guides it to Merlin's cheek, fingers cold and limp on Merlin's skin. 

 

“Useless,” Arthur breathes.

 

Merlin laughs, holding Arthur's hand there. 

 

“Yes, yes I am. You were a very sweet child. You were too old, though. I found it sad, the things you knew and the way you already knew how to speak as prince rather than boy. You were wiser than you are now!”

 

“I want to live,” Arthur says, voice fading to a bare whisper, “I want to live. I want to see what you can do. If you do that by accident, what must it be like when you put your mind to something? I want to live, see what you can do. You told me how it felt, showed me beauty. I want to see again. I'm going to show my people how beautiful it is. 

 

“I will go back, to my city. I will tell my knights, and we will work on the council. We will change the laws. The lands will be free to magic users, and we'll see just what can be achieved. And you'll help. You'll show everyone all the beautiful things that magic can be. My power as king, yours as sorcerer. We're going to share power. We're going to show everyone.”

 

“Yeah,” Merlin says, smiling, “you're going to live.”

 

Arthur nods, a bare movement of his head, and then he breathes out long and is asleep. 

 

“You're going to live,” Merlin whispers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Canon complient major character death suggested


End file.
